


What Morning Might Bring

by phipiohsum475



Series: Serial Suicides [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Cookies, Depression, Prescription Drug Abuse, Suicide Attempt, Unilock, ambiguous ending, cross posted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-04
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2018-02-28 02:52:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2716232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phipiohsum475/pseuds/phipiohsum475
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's Christmas plans turn out to be incredibly harmful.</p><p>Couldn't figure out how to tag a chapter in a different story as a fic in this series (since it fit into both), so I had to cross post it. Sorry about that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Morning Might Bring

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta'd nor britpicked; please (kindly) inform me of any errors)

John lay on his bed, eyes closed, mind dancing through all the things that have gone wrong. With his parents passed, and his only family Harry, he can’t decide whether he regrets not giving her the money she asked for, knowing it only supported her addiction, or if he should have given her the benefit of the doubt, even if meant enabling her. Either way, he was no longer welcome to Harry and Clara’s for Christmas.

He was too proud to ask help from Stamford, and even though his grades are fine, he can’t help but wallow in the deadness of chest, inviting all the tragedy and meaninglessness into his head. He has no place to go for the holiday break and he wondered how long it would take for someone to recognize he hadn’t left the dormitory at all.

He thinks about the last semester and how, despite his academics, every aspect of his life had fallen to pieces. The rejected engagement from Mary, the abandonment of his father, the subsequent, though, expected death of his mother, and then his father’s suicide. And now, for the lack of 100 quid for booze; he’d lost his sister as well.

A knock on the door raised him from his stupor, and he opened it with two day old pajama pants and six days worth of stubble. A perky but sweet transfer student from down the hallway smiled, ignoring the obvious distress he presented.

“So,” the sweet girl began with a playful timbre, “I thought before I went back to the States, I should give Christmas cookies to the whole floor!”

John looked down to see the shapes of trees and bells and stockings, decorated in festival colors and topped with sprinkles and red cinnamon candies. _The presentation was kind of lovely_ , he thought.

He mustered up a genuine smile for the girl; her intentions were pure; and thanked her, “That is great, Amelia, thank you. I really appreciate that.”

“The frosting is my grandma’s recipe; they are so tasty!” she gushed, and put her hand on his shoulder, the slightest acknowledgement of his disheveled appearance,” I hope you love them as much as I do.”

“I’m sure I will. Thank you, again. It was nice getting to know you.” In truth, they’d hung out in a group maybe twice, but he didn’t have any reason to dislike the girl. “Travel home safe,” he offered, and with a quick goodbye, he shut the door.

He stared at the biscuits, heavily and festively decorated, artfully arranged on a cheap decorative plate, and stared some more. _These biscuits_ , he thought, as he set the plate down on an area he cleared off on his desk _, these biscuits were likely the only gifts he’d get this year_.

And wasn’t that the definition of hopeless.

John ate a biscuit; he felt it was only fair. And Amelia was right; her grandmother’s frosting recipe was delicious. But as he continued to stare at the biscuits, they seemed to mock him. He couldn’t pretend that this only demonstration of thoughtfulness, this gesture of kindness from someone he barely knew, could sustain him and buoy his spirits. He’d been packing a bag to live rough for the month, with nowhere else to go. He realized, thought, that he hadn’t truly packed; two changes of clothes and a toothbrush hardly constituted a well planned thought. He’d mimicked packing, but he’d subconsciously known for weeks what he’d planned on doing instead.

He ate one last cookie, oddly enjoying the taste of the hot cinnamon candy decorations as a compliment to the sugar cookie with its almond frosting, while he gathered the necessary supplies. He pulled out old containers of oxycodone and hydrocodone, one from a rugby injury and the other from a confrontation with a homophobe attacking his sister, alprazolam prescribed after his mother’s death, and diazepam prescribed after his father’s death. He searched the medicine cabinet for a few antihistamines. He poured out the drugs into his palm, roughly twenty pills. He’d read enough accidentally toxicology reports in class to know it might be an effective combination. He reached under Mike’s mattress for his bottle of apple flavored schnapps, a drink John had teased him for, but enjoyed none the less.

He emptied near twenty pills into his onto the desk, and poured a glass of schnapps. If it worked, it’d be ruled accidental; if not; he’d take it as a sign that this wasn’t the way. The true odds were uncertain, but he liked to think it were a fifty-fifty decision for his life. If it were worth living or not. And it felt right; letting the decision be out of his hands.

He smiled, the verdict having been made, and took one last of Amelia’s biscuits, one last indulgence, if this were the end of his life to come. He savored the flavor, the way the biscuit crumbled in his mouth, and with one last deep breath, he tossed all the pills in his mouth and chased it with the glass of schnapps.

It felt good, the soft burn of low alcoholic schnapps, and he finished half the bottle before lying back down in his bed, feeling sleepy and lethargic.

Only morning would tell what the night had brought.

**Author's Note:**

> Cross posted here: Anti-Christmas Prompts, http://archiveofourown.org/works/2708348


End file.
